17. Rook
My hand goes for the small drone in my jacket the moment trouble stirs, fingers curling around its cool metal body. Luka’s already pulling his pistol free, movements as fluid as any predator’s.
“Get to it, Rook,” he barks, eyes scanning the desolate horizon. I don’t need telling twice.
I crack the window just enough, the dry air immediately sucking away any remnants of comfort as I toss the drone out into the open sky. It’s all part of the dance—the slide of glass against metal, the whisper of wind, the drone taking flight. In seconds, my phone’s in my other hand, the screen alive with feeds and controls as I maneuver the drone upwards.
“Got eyes in the sky,” I mutter, thumb brushing over the display with practiced ease, the other gripping my gun with an unwavering hold. The device hums outside, a silent extension of my will, scouting the area as I keep us grounded inside this tin can on wheels.
“Good,” Luka grunts, eyes never leaving the exterior. “Keep it steady.”
My focus is split between real and digital landscapes, heartbeat syncing with the drone’s rhythmic buzz. Gunfire stitches the silence outside, a rapid staccato that shreds any illusion of safety.
“Stay here,” Luka snaps without looking at me, his voice a harsh command that leaves no room for argument.
“Like hell—“ I start to protest but he’s already moving, door flung open as he rolls out into the chaos. My heart wants to follow, but my body freezes, caught between duty and the instinct to survive.
“Dammit, Luka!” I curse under my breath, fingers tightening around my gun. He’s a shadow slipping through the afternoon heat, darting toward Aisling’s car, toward her.
Bang!
Glass explodes inwards, spiderwebs of destruction creeping across what used to be a windshield. Another shot—a sickening thud—then a spray of red that isn’t from the dying sun. The driver’s head snaps back, an exit wound where there shouldn’t be one, and he slumps forward, lifeless.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I don’t have time for shock, for grief. There’s only adrenaline and the primal need to act.
“Come on, Rook, don’t freeze up now,” I mutter to myself, trying to push past the fear clawing at my insides. I’ve survived worse than this, and I’ll survive today.
I have to.
Gun in one hand, drone control in the other—I slide out of the car, keeping my body low. The Mojave Skyway is a battleground, my senses on overdrive as I navigate the asphalt and debris. Dust kicks up around me, the air hot and dry, clogging my throat.
“Rook!” Aisling’s voice cuts through the gunfire. I zero in on her position—crouched behind the vehicle, eyes stormy with fear and determination.
“Are you hit?” I ask, dropping beside her, scanning for any sign of injury.
She shakes her head, strands of blonde hair sticking to her forehead. “No gun,” she says, and it’s all the information I need.
I press my weapon into her palm. “Show them what you’re made of, Stargazer.”
Her fingers close around the grip, a fierce light igniting in her grey eyes. “Thanks.”
She springs up, aiming with a surgeon’s precision, letting off a trio of shots that echoes in my skull. I’m about to cheer when a shadow lunges from around the wreck of a burnt-out car, seizing her arm.
“Rook!” is her sharp cry, cut midway as the thug tries to drag her away.
“Dammit!” My voice is rough like gravel. I can’t get there fast enough, but Oberon—Oberon’s already on it. He barrels into the guy like a freight train, his fists hammering down in a merciless cadence.
“Get your hands off her!” he roars, each word punctuated by a blow.
“Oberon,” I bark out, my eyes catching something—a mark on the thug’s neck, just visible above his collar. An Eclipse tattoo, dark and ominous. Crap. These guys are high-level scum, not your garden-variety wastelanders. They’ve got resources, training, and a hell of a vendetta against us.
“Watch it,” I growl at Oberon, who’s still raining down punches. “These ain’t amateurs!”
Gunsmoke chokes the air as I sprint between heaps of twisted metal, the sun beating down like it’s got a score to settle. My heart’s pounding a drumline in my chest when my eyes find Vance mid-brawl—a blur of silver and black silk suit.
“Vance!” I yell over the cacophony, breath hitching as I duck behind an overturned car. “Eclipse goons—sharp and loaded for bear!”
Vance snaps his head toward me, bright blue eyes razor-sharp under the desert glare. He doesn’t miss a beat, slamming a thug’s head into the hood of a car with a sickening crunch.
“Keep one breathing!” I shout, hoping he hears me over the gunfire that’s singing a deadly tune.
“Got it!” His voice comes back, gravelly and sure, before he’s lost in the melee again.
I’m not waiting for an invitation—I pop out from cover, letting off two shots at some punk trying to flank us. His body jerks back, and he crumples to the asphalt, a dead weight no one will miss.
“Rook, left side!” Aisling’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp as the edge of a knife.
I pivot, spotting a pair of bastards creeping up on our blind spot. Without pause, I squeeze the trigger, the recoil jarring against my palm as one thug drops. The other dives for cover, but I’m already moving, stalking forward with my drone buzzing overhead like an avenging angel.
“Come on, you Eclipse motherfuckers,” I snarl, my finger itching on the trigger. “Show me what you’ve got.”
They oblige, bullets whizzing by close enough to write my eulogy. But I’m dancing with death today, and I ain’t ready for the last waltz. I return fire, a symphony of chaos and lead, until the air’s thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder.
“Rook! Your six!” Luka’s warning has me spinning, just in time to see a brute barreling toward me, all muscle and malice.
“Shit!” I curse, sidestepping and bringing my gun up. It coughs out a round, hitting him square in the shoulder. He stumbles but keeps coming—like the damn Terminator.
“Stay down!” I hiss, aiming again, but a hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me back.
“Leave him!” Vance orders, appearing like a phantom out of the dust. “He’s the one we need alive!”
“Fine!” I grit out, watching as Vance goes to work, fists flying with a precision that speaks of too many years in the game.
The goon’s tough, but Vance is tougher, and soon enough, he’s got the bastard on his knees, gasping for mercy that won’t come. We lock eyes, his bright blue gaze telling me all I need to know—he’ll keep this one breathing, but only just.
“Talk,” Vance growls, dragging the thug’s face up by a fistful of hair. “Or I’ll let Rook here finish what he started.”
The bastard’s teeth are already red, his grin more of a snarl. “Nero Rossi and Gunnar Finch send their regards,” he spits out, voice raspy with pain or hate, can’t tell which.
“Who?” Vance’s grip tightens, a vice of fury and muscle. But it’s too damn late; the guy’s jaw works once, twice, and then he’s foaming at the mouth—cyanide white frothing past cracked lips.
“Damn it!” I kick the dirt, watching life flee from his body, rapid like the desert winds. There’s no saving him; there’s no getting answers now. Just a dead man’s message lingering in the sweltering air.
Nero and Gunnar are on the offensive.
And this is about to get a hell of a lot more bloody.